The Massif Chronicles
by Draven MacRonan
Summary: A primordial being known as Massif and its forces have laid siege to the country of Varisia. Only the Knights of the Sihedron, led by Lord Draxas stand to face this threat. Set in an alternate future of Golarion, the world of the Pathfinder RPG.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

The Kodar Mountains: 1 Desnus, 4742

Amidst an unimaginably vast badland of crags and fissures and at the center of the violent blood-red storms that continually wracked the continent of Varisia rose a city of violet-black stone and towering spires, piercing the ominous crimson gloom with a thousand pinpricks of pale light. This was Mharton, the Burning City.

Born in the aftermath of Mhar's rise from the mountain that once held him captive for countless eons, the city was home not only to many of the lesser beings and creatures that followed the entity into Golarion but those native to this world as well. A great many were cultists, laboring under the belief that for their efforts they would be spared from Oblivion. The rest were more pragmatic seeking to gain as much as they could for themselves in this life before the inevitable came to pass.

A place born both of contention and anarchy, Mharton's haphazard layout reflected this all too well. Its buildings were alien in their design, replete with vast angles, unholy images, and disturbing hieroglyphs. It was loathsome in its immenseness and abnormality, a dark blot that flew in the face of all logic, sanity, and order.

Of these grim structures, the most intimidating was unquestionably the edifice of stone and adamantine known to Mharton's inhabitants as the Fortress of Flame. Many were those that had the misfortune to be taken there. Few returned and they were either reluctant to or incapable of relating all of what they saw there. But when anything could be gotten at all there was often mention of pounding drums, trilling pipes and darkened corridors that bore disturbing frescoes depicting scenes that curdled the blood. They spoke in whispers of a throne of gold atop a dais of stone and rows of dark stained altars that surrounded a wide pit. But when asked of that which sat upon the throne, none would deign to do so. Indeed, many fell to sobbing or screaming uncontrollably until they were left alone to find what solace they could.

From this place a man clad in tattered leather robes emerged. A turban of dirty silk and a swath of cloth served to obscure most of his head. The streetwise of Mharton averted their gazes as he walked amongst them, careful not to notice the odd bumps beneath his turban, the strange way the scarf seemed to wiggle and writhe, or the weird twitches of his robes that hinted of limbs not entirely human. Though none knew its true name, all knew it to be the Herald of Mhar and as such possessed almost unrivaled authority within the bounds of the city.

The Herald soon found itself at the doors of an establishment called The Scarlet Tear, a place with the shadiest of reputations. Here, a customer could commonly find services that would be viewed as less than reputable in other cities.

The owner, a portly woman called Kuran, said not a word as it entered, hoping that the Herald had not come for her. She watched with baited breath as it approached a table where a single figure sat. A thin discordant whine emanated from the Herald as it gestured with a gloved hand, indicating that the individual rise and follow. Kuran shook her head as she noted the stubborn refusal to acknowledge the Herald's request and nearly soiled herself when the whining became a shrill shrieking chirp.

Shadowy mirage-like silhouettes wavered into view on either side of the Herald. Insect-like in appearance, they were similar in form to a praying mantis but with a spiked carapace that was the same in tone and hue as the stonework that made up the city. Three pairs of burning orange eyes glittered maliciously as they brought their focus upon the hapless victim and reached out with grasping forelimbs. Once they had him, a darkness fell upon the room. When it cleared once again, only the Herald remained.

* * *

Marandici Caravan: 1 Desnus, 4742

The dream was always the same.

Figures dressed in robes gathered around an open grave. A man condemned. An arcane sword. Flesh-searing heat.

Yes, the dream was always the same. Save for one detail.

The screams. They were always louder.

Draxas stood up from his chair within the campaigner's tent, his brow drenched with sweat. Taking the time to catch his breath, the old man felt the full weight of his sixty years upon him as leaned forward and placed his hands upon the table. His face became framed by unbound shoulder length gray hair, lightly streaked with black. "Syeira!"

From outside, a dark haired Varisian woman stuck her head in. "I'm here, sir."

"Where is Kaisur?"

Syeira considered her words carefully before speaking. "I believe he's standing vigil, sir."

Draxas looked up and fixed the guard squarely in his sight, his golden eyes seeming to peer into her very soul. "And Madame Zellara?"

"Outside, sir. Along with the priestess of Desna."

He chuckled. Somehow those two always seemed to know... "Show them in. And Syeira?"

"Yes, sir?"

"When Lavitz is done, send him to me immediately."

Draxas, his joints and muscles protesting with each step, strode over from the table strewn with maps that he had fallen asleep at to the corner of the tent where his armor rested. He was a tall man, but not overly so. The high cheekbones of his face marked him as one of Chelish descent, but no true Chelaxian had ever been born with eyes like his. Slanted and amber in color, Draxas' eyes were the first feature remembered by most after any encounter with him. He looked at his reflection in the silver mirror that hung from a post and set himself to the task of pulling back his hair and binding it into what his brother Shoanti tribesmen from the Lyrune-Quah clan called a 'wolf knot.' When he was done, Draxas then reached over and removed his mithril plate armor from where it sat on the stand. Before donning it, the old man stared at it for a moment, his mind going back to the days of his youth. Those had been better and brighter times.

"Feeling nostalgic are we," came a familiar voice from behind him.

Draxas turned to regard the speaker, a tall dark-haired female half-elf, giving her a warm smile. "Only when you're around, Reise." Like many of her faith, the half-elf wore bright colored garb that had patterns like butterfly wings woven into it. That and the two starknives, weapons worn on either hip that consisted of a central metal ring and bar with four tapering metal blades that extended like points on a compass rose, identified her as a Desnan priestess.

Reise fought back a shudder, as she always did, when he smiled. No amount of time could pass that would ever prepare her for the sight of those pointed teeth of his. "Let me get that for you." She made her way over to where Draxas stood and helped him put on his armor.

He then turned his attention to the other woman that had accompanied Reise. "Greetings, Madame Zellara. This dance finds you well."

As always, Reise raised an eyebrow at his greeting. In Korvosa, the word 'dancer' was a negative term, meant to be derogatory toward Varisians due to their love of dance. Anyone who did this for a living came to be called 'performers' to avoid confusion. Though she knew Draxas meant no disrespect to Zellara, Reise couldn't help but feel a little uneasy when he spoke like that to the head of the caravan.

"And you, Lord Draxas." The silver-haired woman, wrapped in her shawl and dressed in a gown of violet, carried herself with an air of dignity that commanded respect. And well that she should, for this little old lady led the Marandici familiy of wagon folk. Like Syeira, Zellara's deep olive skin marked her as Varisian as surely as the tiny butterfly and star tattoos visible on her face. "It was the dream again."

Zellara did not ask if Draxas had had the dream, for she already knew the answer. She somehow always knew.

"Yes."

"If I may, I will perform a Harrowing for you."

Draxas nodded his assent, and Madame Zellara made her way over to the clutter that was the map table, where she produced from beneath her shawl a deck of cards. "What is it that you seek, Draxas Arkona, Lord of Fort Rannick?"

He shifted uncomfortably where he stood next to Reise. In spite of the numerous readings Madame Zellara had performed for Draxas, he could never get used to her use of his full name and title. "I wish to know the state of our war against the Crimson Flame."

"Then let us see what the cards have to say this night."

The fortuneteller produced from the Harrow deck nine cards, which she fanned out and held toward Draxas. He took one and handed it back to Madame Zellara, who examined it with great interest. "The Survivor," she said. "A powerful card. Traditionally, it means rebirth through ordeal."

She then replaced the cards and shuffled the deck, her hands flowing such as to make the cards seem to dance and float over the table. When she was done, Madame Zellara conducted a spread, drawing and placing nine cards face down in a three-by-three pattern on the table. The arrangement related to the nine classic moral and personal attitudes held by all living things and implied an aspect of the past, present, or future of the topic of the reading. She started from the left, turning over the first card.

"The Marriage. A union of persons or ideas. This was a positive event in your past, symbolizing perhaps the day you met your companions."

This brought a warm smile to Draxas' face as he thought back to the time he had returned to his hometown of Sandpoint, a day that had changed his life forever.

Madame Zellara reached for the next card, one just below the first. "The Locksmith," she said after flipping it over. "At some point in your past, you were given the keys to a new destiny."

Draxas nodded and the fortuneteller continued, moving on to the third card.

"The Fiend. In this placement, this card bears great signifigance to you, Lord Draxas, as it represents the loss of many in a great calamity." These words caused both Draxas and Reise to look to one another. Both knew what was being refered to in this instance.

The day that Mhar, the Crimson Flame, was unleashed upon Varisia.

"The past has been revealed." The tiny Varisian woman proceeded to the next column of cards. "Now we shall look to the present."

The next card she revealed turned out to be The Survivor, the one he had chosen from before. Madame Zellara smiled. "The adversity of your past has truly made you stronger. It is that strength which has been called upon and is sorely needed. Never forget this, Lord Draxas."

Draxas' face bore a look of thoughtful determination, then motioned for her to continue.

Madame Zellara's next card was The Bear. "Brute force reigns for the moment, but the consequences are not known. What this portent means is unclear."

_Brute force is all that is keeping us from being overwhelmed by the forces aligned to the Crimson Flam_e, thought Lord Draxas. The cultists had not expected him to be the aggressor and that had been working to his favor, but for how much longer would that last? Perhaps a shift in tactics was in order.

"Desna preserve us!" Reise pointed to the card that the fortuneteller had just revealed. "The Juggler!"

"Yes, the goddess preserve us indeed. This placement of The Juggler is misaligned. Where once it meant that Fate was on your side, now it serves to symbolize that the goddess has turned her back on you."

Draxas looked grim as heard those ominous words.

"I can continue, if that is your wish, Lord Draxas." Her words were phrased as a statement, not as a question. But she already knew what his response would be.

He shook his head. "Thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary, Madame Zellara. I have heard all that I needed to this day. If you will excuse me, I have much to consider. May our next dance find us under better circumstances."

Madame Zellara smiled as she replaced the upturned cards into her deck. "I'm sure that it will, Lord Draxas. I'm sure that it will." And with those words, the Varisian fortuneteller left the tent.

"Syeira!"

The guard's head poked back into the tent. "Sir?"

"Find Lavitz? We still have much work to do."


	2. Chapter 2

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

Naqam gazed across the most recent killing field in the battle to take back Varisia from the forces of the Crimson Flame, his face from the nose down wrapped with scented cloth to protect himself from the stench of the dead. All around him were bloated corpses, mostly human, inhabitants of a small hamlet called Sirathu. In his mind he could hear the echo of their dying screams clearly, see the battle they waged against the servants of Chaos, the insane cultists that sought to bring the "gift" of change to all. That this change brought with it fire, destruction, and anarchy, murder, pestilence, and terror meant nothing to them, for they sought nothing less than the end of everything.

"Why would anyone do this?" The query came from Xein, who had quietly walked up to stand beside Naqam.

_Madness._ The thought was a simple truth, for no sane mind could willingly embrace this as being for the good of all. The Lady of Runes, his goddess Lissala, and Desna, the goddess known to him as The Mysterious Traveller, different as night and day from one another, at one time stood together against such foes in the days before the rise of the empire of Thassilon. Now in this day and age, only Desna remained to face this threat from beyond, his goddess lost with the fall of the great empire. And though she was not alone in her fight, the loss of Lissala robbed Desna of a powerful friend and ally.

He turned to regard his companion. Xein also wore a facial cloth, but in his case it, along with the hooded longcoat he wore, was more to hide his features than to provide any kind of protection from the pervading stench. He was from Cheliax, a country reknowned for trafficking with devils. As a child, Xein's father, a Chelish devil-binder, used a dangerous ritual in an attempt to infuse his son with the power of a pit fiend.

An attempt that worked, but not in the manner his father expected. A complex series of glowing white runes were embedded just beneath the skin all over his body, serving both as a diabolical link to Hell from this world and the manifestation of his father's infernal compact. In time, Xein came to exercise control of this investiture and developed powers similar in nature to a warlock.

The Chelaxian raised a hand limned in hellish fire that smelled faintly of brimstone, but before he could do anything another reached forth and grabbed him. "Lavitz..." began Xein.

The Andoren, who had somehow made his way to both men without their knowledge, stared intently at the Chelish man, a look that ended any further attempt by Xein to speak. "I have no problem with you using your powers against our enemies," he said. "Their souls were damned when they aligned themselves with the Crimson Flame. Your soul, however, is another matter. Do not do anything that we would both regret."

Naqam quietly observed their confrontation, the sight stirring a memory within him of his own first encounter with Lavitz nearly a year ago...

* * *

Ashwood: 18 Arodus, 4741

_The crystal is the heart of the weapon. The heart is the crystal of the J'sevath. The J'sevath is the crystal of the universe. The universe is the weapon of the heart. All of these are connected: the crystal, the weapon, the J'sevath. We are one_.

Naqam repeated this mantra in his mind as he knelt in the clearing, huge and ancient coniferous trees sheltering what would normally have been the heart of a tranquil place.

But these times were anything but normal.

Overhead, small sheets of lightning shimmered faintly in a night sky that already burned with red fire. But this was nothing new to Naqam. Since the coming of the Crimson Flame in the North, this was an all too common occurance. It was as though nature itself was in open defiance to the malevolent and destructive force that was at work in the world.

But whereas nature could openly show its disdain for the presence of Massif and the chaos it represented, the varied peoples of Varisia dared not, lest the cultists, those that willingly served the Crimson Flame, make their lives more unbearable than it already was.

Naqam rose to his feet and placed the cowl of his white robes over his bald head, the shadows within breaking up the view of his face. His senses told him that something – or someone, was coming and he wanted to be ready to meet it. He slipped his arms through the slits in his robes where the sleeves attached to the main body and reached for the cylindrical crystal rod that hung from the white leather belt of his desert-like garb and held it by his side.

"You came. Are you ready?" Naqam turned to face the one he had sensed.

"I am," came the expected response. "Are you sure this is the only way to prove yourself to us?"

Naqam said nothing as he raised the crystalline rod and triggered its activation with but a thought. Twin lances of pure telekinetic force boiled forth, hissing and crackling in violet loops that began and ended at the apertures on either end of the delicate-looking device. He immediately settled into a ready stance, hands lightly gripping the deep crystal hilt that now made up the center, the heart, of his force-staff, amber eyes focused intently on his opponent.

Across from him stood his opponent, Lavitz Kaisur, a haggard-looking blond-haired Andoren dressed in simple clothing: boots, dark wool breeches, and a black leather vest worn over a loose white shirt. Were it not for the thick, studded mace he held in his hand, a casual observer would overlook this man based solely on appearance, thinking he was nothing more than a commoner exhausted from a long day of work.

But Naqam knew better than to underestimate this seemingly ordinary looking man.

* * *

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

Xein met Lavitz's intense gaze with one of his own, the Chelish man's eyes seeming to smolder within their sockets as they flickered with shades of red. "Aside from ourselves, Lavitz, there are only corpses here."

"Not entirely true. Naqam, would you..."

"Yes, Lavitz. I'm already on it."

The sound of low whispering voices filled the area as Naqam began extending his perceptions to sense the presence of spiritual energy. Energy that could only come from living beings. Immediately he sensed the auras of himself and his companions, with his own being the strongest of the three. Naqam then began to pivot in place, slowly shifting the cone of his spiritual vision around him to encompass the immediate area, taking care not to overlook anything within his view. He had almost performed a full circuit when he found something. It was faint, barely noticeable even to him with his heightened awareness. So how had Lavitz ... ? "Found it. Very faint. I think that whoever it is may be dying."

"Take care of it, Naqam. Xein and I need to talk."

"As you wish." Without another word, Naqam left to uncover the person he had sensed.

The Andoren's gaze never left the Chelaxian. "We never assume, Xein. So much of what we do depends on it."

"And what is it that we do exactly?. Huh, Lavitz? Why exactly are we here? We're supposed to fight the enemy, not clean up their mess." Xein's eyes blazed with a crimson light, his anger apparent. "This is not why I'm here."

"What we 'do' is serve. In any capacity that we can. That is our duty, our obligation..."

"Serve?" The tone of Xein's words seemed to possess a disturbing supernatural quality to them. "Where I come from, the words 'servant' and 'slave' have no distinction. I am no one's slave. Least of all yours, Lavitz." And with that said, the Chelaxian produced in his free hand a shaft of white energy that thrummed dangerously. "Now, let go of me!"

Lavitz's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. He had been hoping that it would not come to conflict. "Don't do this, Xein. Calm down and put that blade of yours away." The tone of his voice was soothing as he attempted to bring the situation back under control. He released his grip on Xein's arm, his thoughts falling back to another time and place...

* * *

Ashwood: 18 Arodus, 4741

Lavitz watched Naqam An'Akin use the crystal hilt as a focus to manifest his force-staff, observing the distribution of his opponent's weight across his body while assuming a defensive ready posture. The Andoren knew that the stance he now saw had a dual purpose, for though it enabled the user to receive incoming attacks, a slight shift in his steps could turn defense into offense before the attacker even realized it had occurred.

_No_, thought Lavitz, _I will not be the one to charge recklessly in. You will have to come to me._

One of Lavitiz's fingers made contact with the second of the six studs on the mace, pressing it lightly. Within moments, the item began to change. A wide blade sprang forth from the flanged ball that topped the weapon, even as it's haft lengthened. The change took place within the span of an eye's blink, but the two foot long mace had doubled in length to become a four foot long battleaxe that he held now in a two-handed grip above his head with the blade angled both upward and behind him, the dominant leg back, a high guard stance that enabled powerful step-through strikes to be utilized.

_Powerful_, thought Naqam. _Unusual, but still powerful._

Lavitz's stance spoke volumes to him. It was similar to what the J'sevath called _R'Orikal_, the Way of The Brass Dragon. Strength and power would be the emphasis of the Andoren's chosen form, both in offense and defense.

This stance also told Naqam that he would have to be the one to initiate this fight, especially if he wanted to get Kaisur to do what he needed him to do. And so Naqam began to advance, weapon thrumming resonantly as it was whirled over his head and around his shoulders even as he spun into an application of the linking step used in his favored style of combat, a form called _E'erop_, the Way of The Tentacled Beast. Naqam became a whirlwind of aggression as both ends of his force-staff were used in a series of extremely rapid and powerful attacks, enhanced even more by the power of his soul.

But the flurry of blows was blocked by Lavitz, the head of his battleaxe in the precise, proper alignments to catch each strike made by Naqam, whose arms ached from each point of contact with the weapon. However, he had no time to think on it, for now Lavitz had shifted from defense to offense, the Andoren's battleaxe coming in to begin a series of wide, powerful strikes meant to wear down his opponent.

For that was the purpose of R'Orikal's design, to use the opponent's attack against them so as to create openings that can be taken advantage of. Requiring a higher level of physical strength and endurance than the other forms taught by his order, the focus of this particular form was on the complete domination of the opponent. It was both brutal and effective, but given what he knew of this man, Naqam thought this style of combat suited him very well. The Andoren was like metal: strong and powerful, uncompromising and unbreakable. And like metal, he would overcome through persistance and might, never yielding, ever tireless.

But Naqam was like fire, the great contradiction: creative and passionate, filled with joy and anger and brilliance. Fire overwhelms, it consumes and it illuminates. Destruction and creation, smoke and light, love and hate. All of these things were embodied in fire and, therefore, in himself. The knowledge of this truth would enable Naqam to overcome his foe.

Lavitz ended his counterattack with the double-handed overhead strike that was a signature move of R'Orikal, one that Naqam had been expecting. He brought one end of his force-staff up to meet the descending weapon, allowing his own to be pushed back before spinning around to catch the Andoren in the back with the other end. Naqam quickly back pedaled away from Lavitz, spinning away into a _Desnan_, or butterfly, jump that played upon a weakness inherent in R'Orikal's form: it's lack of mobility. By making Lavitz come after him, he had taken control of the battle away from the Andoren and, in the process, blunted his use of the Brass Dragon form.

The robed warrior seemed to be on the defensive, backing away as he was trying desperately to avoid any points of contact with his axe. Not wishing to give him any breathing room, Lavitz continued to press the attack. He swung his battleaxe left, right, then left again. And with each pass, the result was the same: Naqam nimbly danced out of the weapon's reach. Then the white clad warrior did something Lavitz did not expect. After the last swing, Naqam launched himself into a cartwheel that incorporated an inward snapkick in the air, his foot almost catching Lavitz full in the face due to his forward momentum, before landing. All without the use of his hands.

Lavitz was impressed, both by the acrobatic prowess of his adversary and the cunning he'd displayed in using that particular move. Naqam had used his _**arms**_ to torque his body over into the cartwheel position, and in doing, freed his _**feet**_ to be used in an offensive manner. The unexpected move would have landed had he not brought himself up short.

"So the rumours are true," said Lavitz. "You **are** a Walker of the Hidden Path, a follower of the Will and the Way. A Lissalan warrior-mystic."

Naqam said nothing as he continued moving, his focus unwavering.

The Andoren shook his head then launched himself forward into a dash, charging Naqam with his axe held high. The warrior-mystic snapped one end of his force-staff into the underside of his opponent's left arm, knocking both the arm aside and the axe out of alignment. Then, in the same motion, Naqam brought the other end of his weapon down and to the side, caving in the Andoren's knee before bringing the force-staff up to catch Lavitz full in the face with the crystal-hilt, his nose collapsing beneath the force of the blow.

* * *

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

Naqam had managed to move aside some of the corpses that were between him and the aura he was sensing. With each body moved, the volume of the whispering voices increased. When he finally came across the body of a child, a little girl, Naqam was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer loudness of the voices as they seemed to take on a screaming quality. Allowing his mystic sense to fall away, Naqam began to focus on the task of extricating her from where she lay, lifting her gently and carrying her a short distance away.

As he knelt down and began to check the little girl for injuries, Naqam could hear Lavitz and Xein's words. _Not now_, he thought. _The last thing we need is to start fighting amongst ourselves._

"...put that blade of yours away."

Naqam turned away from his task and saw his companions facing each other as though they were about to come to blows. He could not let this happen. Not after everything they had been through. Naqam knew he had to hurry before it was too late. The mystic looked back to the little girl he had saved...and immediately was back to his feet, his crystal hilt in hand.

Across the little girl's face, lines of molten gold began to trace along her features, spilling forth from the corners of her mouth. The flesh of her cheeks began to pulse and throb with an eerie green light before finally splitting away to reveal jewels, emeralds, that flickered with an unholy glare.

Naqam backed away from the abomination before him, igniting his weapon as he moved. This was a totenmaske, an undead thing that existed only to prey on the living. But unlike most undead, it did not just savor the life essence of its victims. The totenmaske's cravings ran along a more twisted course, for the creature also fed on the emotional release in the sins of others as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Ashwood: 18 Arodus, 4741

Lavitz looked up from the kneeling position that he found himself in and allowed himself a slight smile, one that softened his features in spite of the immense pain he was feeling, before thumbing the second stud on his axe again, causing it to change back into its previous configuration and then attached it to the hitch on his belt. "You follow the tenets of Lissala. 'That all workers receive their due, that all works are rewarded, and that faith... ' ''

Beneath his cowl, Naqam smiled. " 'And that faith is the answer to adversity.' " He finished Lavitz's statement, finished the very creed that was a foundation for both his order and his faith. He paused but for a moment before continuing. "As a J'sevath, I was taught that one's true strength comes from the purity of a heart unburdened by doubt, like a beast's. This is the essence of faith.

"That is why I fight, Lavitz Kaisur. I fight to affirm my faith, knowing that in these hard times it takes more than just sitting by and hoping that something or someone will come along to make everything better for all concerned. I fight because I know that if there is to be any kind of change, it will take both hard work and the strength of a pure heart to make such a thing come to pass."

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

The air thrummed as Naqam spun his force-staff before him, trying to anticipate the totenmaske's attack. The creature's eyes were wide as it lunged forward, desperate with hunger as it braved the dangerous weapon and tried to claw at the warrior-mystic. He angled his staff slightly, arcing it, and with a snap of his wrists, slammed the forearms of the creature so as to keep its clawed hands away from him.

The totenmaske hissed, whether in pain or frustration Naqam was not sure. Again it pressed forward, clawing and biting at its foe and again Naqam spun his weapon to keep the undead horror at bay. As it moved, the warrior-mystic noted that the totenmaske's speed was much faster than his own. In combination with its inability to feel fatigue, Naqam knew that allowing it to set the pace of this combat would be to the creature's advantage.

It dove at Naqam, who twirled away from the totenmaske easily enough, whirling his weapon about himself as he moved. When came he back around to face the creature, it was no where to be seen.

_Where is it? Where did it go? _Naqam looked about him, making sure to use every sense available to him, but found nothing to indicate where the totenmaske went. Secure that his foe had somehow fled the scene, Naqam shut off his force-staff and hooked the crystal-hilt back on his belt. He spared one more glance back over the area and began to make his way back to his companions.

Ashwood: 18 Arodus, 4741

Lavitz looked up at the man standing before him for a long moment. "Your conviction, your belief, is strong. And that is what connects all who would stand against the forces arrayed against us. Which is why I would be honored to have you by my side in this fight. You have given up much to be here in this place. Left behind all that you know to be here now in this moment, based solely on your faith, the strength of your convictions, and the purity of your spirit. I just hope that we prove ourselves worthy of you and your faith."

Naqam ceased his movement and deactivated his force-staff. "You already have, Lavitz Kaisur. I am curious about one thing. You do not walk the Hidden Path yet you know of it. How?"

"I walk my own path," came Lavitiz's response, accentuated with wink. He then placed a hand on his ruined knee. "Iomeade is a stern mistress. Stern but fair. Much like your own." A warm yellow radience flickered from beneath his hand, flowing over his injury. The sight made Naqam think of the sun, a celestial body not seen or felt in Varisia in over thirty years.

* * *

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

The holy knight understood Xein's frustration and could empathize with him. The Chelaxian was young and sought to prove himself on the field of battle. But his feelings went much deeper than that. Lavitz had been present on the day Xein first sought to become a Knight of the Sihedron. Many voices had spoken out against the Chelaxian, fearful of both his heritage and his power. However, Lord Draxas had seen something of himself in Xein, and so granted his petition to become a Rune Knight but only if one of his men would accept him as an equal. When Lavitz saw that no one else was going to, he immediately stepped forth.

He allowed Xein to regain his composure. "We have a duty to render aid however we can," said Lavitz, taking care on his choice of words. "It is an obligation that we all have accepted when we took on the mantle of Sihedron Knight. If there is even the slightest chance that someone could be alive here, then we must find out."

Xein nodded his head, then looked up at Lavitz. "I understand."

The Andoren smiled, relieved that he and the Chelaxian had not come to blows. "Let us go and see how Naqam is doing."

"Lavitz!"

"Naqam! We were just coming to..."

The Lissalan warrior-mystic interrupted his companion. "There is trouble here. A totenmaske is running loose. I can't sense where it is at the moment, but it couldn't have gone far."

Lavitz glanced from Naqam over to Xein, his clothing seeming to dissolve away, revealing a black and gold suit of baroque full plate armor displaying raised images of radiant angels and rampant lions beneath. "Time to render what aid we can," he said through the muzzle of the armor's roaring lion head helmet, his weapon firmly in hand.

* * *

Ashwood: 18 Arodus, 4741

The warrior mystic re-hitched his own weapon and extended his gloved hand to Lavitz. The Andoren, his knee now fully healed, accepted the offer and rose to his feet.

"A holy knight of Iomeade, trained in the ways of enlightenment. The Minkai of Tian Xia have a word for one such as you: _sohei_."

Lavitz inclined his head forward slightly in acknowledgent of Naqam's words. "Once again, you honor me greatly." Lavitz knew of the Minkai and had heard that a sohei was an honorable warrior, one with such depth of character and enlightened goodness that he gained holy power enough to stand against the most terrible of enemies in defense of his ideals and beliefs. "I am nothing like you."

Naqam pulled down the cowl of his robes, revealing an unreadable expression on his tattooed face. "No, you are not. You are sohei. I am J'sevath. It is very clear that we are different."

Prominently displayed across the bald man's face was a large red seven-pointed star, a Sihedron rune. The sign of his goddess Lissala plain for all to see.

Lavitz's mouth was agape for just a moment. This was the first time he had actually seen the warrior-mystic's face, for he commonly kept it hidden beneath the large hood he wore. He had the bronzed skin and noble look of an Osirian, one of the desert folk that lived on Garund, a continent to the south of Avistan. Lavitz quickly recovered his composure. "Come, Naqam. The others await and we have much work to do."

Sirathu: Desnus, 4742

The three men moved slowly amongst the ruins of Sirathu, each keeping a vigilant eye on their surroundings and each other. Lavitz, taking rear guard, and Xein, taking the point position, kept Naqam in between them he used his mystical senses to try and locate the undead creature. But because the totenmaske had resumed its true form, he was unable to perceive it anymore.

But Naqam knew there had to be another way. He went through a couple of _expressions_ before settling on one that enabled him to sense the hostile intentions of others. The Osirian immediately felt the intentions of his companions even as they caught the scent of burning ozone that was reminescent of a lightning strike billowing away from him as he activated his power. He also felt something else as well.

"Wait," he called out. "It's nearby. I can sense it."

They all halted their movement. "Where is it, Naqam?"

The warrior-mystic raised a hand to Lavitz as he focused his senses to locate the creature. "You should be able to see it."

Xein whirled about, trying his best to see it. "Are you sure? Because I sure can't see it."

"Neither can I." Lavitz turned his head as much as his helmet would allow. "Could your senses be wrong? Perhaps it has a way to fool you."

"No, Lavitz. My senses do not lie. It is here."

The Andoren thought for a moment, then assumed a defensive stance. "The ground. It is in the ground!"

And at that moment, before anyone could act, a pair of moldy green hands erupted from the ground behind Naqam and grabbed his ankles, who screamed as his flesh began to peel away from the creature's touch. He could feel his body going cold, feel his emotional essence being drained away. Naqam tried calling out to his companions, but the strength to do so was gone. It took all that he had to just stand upright.

Lavitz thumbed the third stud on his rod, causing a long blade to spring forth and the handle to extend, transforming into a ten-foot long spear. He immediately began to thrust the weapon down at angle before him, trying to hit the creature without hitting his friend.

Xein stood by, his own weapons in hand, waiting for an opportunity to use them against the totenmaske.


	4. Chapter 4

Marandici Caravan: 6 Desnus, 4742

At the Varisian caravan a man pushed his way past the screen of bushes before the campsite. He was a short man, with broad shoulders tapering to lean hips and powerful legs, and was dressed in browns and greens. Hooded, his face was covered by a shaped mask of leather. He moved like a dancer, yet there was something barbaric there: a primordial element that was both lethal and beautiful. He was wary, his bright golden eyes flickering to every bush and every shadow-haunted tree.

When he saw the soldiers, he paused only for a moment, his fingers flexing as he read the situation.

They were four men that wore white shirts with red embroidered vests and trousers. Though they dressed like roving Varisians, their clothing was far too neat and clean, indicating a degree of discipline that people of the caravan should not have possessed.

Each man was armed with short stabbing swords, weapons that were easy to maintain and, more importantly, required little skill to use. He carried no weapons. The odds of successfully defeating each of them without attracting further attention would be significantly against him. The man smiled beneath his mask.

He liked those odds.

"Lord Draxas sure knows his stuff," said Bastian. "Hooking up with the wagon folk was a genius move."

The others shook their heads, struggling to hide their mirth, even as they were finishing up a hand of Towers. "What? What's so funny."

Ancrym, a bald, tall and powerfully built man of obvious Shoanti stock, looked over at his friend. "What's so genius about it? Everybody knows that their caravans travel everywhere with no particular destination in mind. Why?"

" 'Because the journey is the purpose.' " The words were spoken by all in unison. How many times had they heard the wagon drivers say those very words?

"They're crafty, these Varisians." Ancrym, Bastian, and the third soldier turned to regard the fourth amongst them, a veteran from the nation of Taldor who rarely spoke. "Taking a route based solely on the sighting a falling star? Madness. And yet there is method to what they do."

"Yeah, and Lord Draxas knows it," Bastian agreed. "The caravans are among the few things that the cultists leave alone."

The third soldier, who had sat quietly listening to his comrades, now stood up, his eyes darting all about the area. Like Ancrym, he too was Shoanti.

"Tanrov, is something wrong?" Ancrym asked even as a hand dropped to the sword he wore. The others did the same, also looking around them.

"He senses me?" The masked man was impressed, but he knew that he could not afford to let the soldiers find him. If he was going to act, it would have to be now.

He exploded from his hiding place, bearing down on the two Lyrune-Quah, or Moon Clan, Shoanti. He knew that if they were anything like the other Shoanti tribesmen he had encountered before, these two would be the most dangerous hand-to-hand combatants. His hand flashed out and up, fingers extended, smashing Bastian's nose. The thin cartilage sliced into his brain and he dropped without a sound. The masked man then whirled and leapt, a booted foot hammering into the throat of the second Lyrune-Quah man. Even as he landed on the balls of his feet, he parried a thrust from Ancrym's now drawn sword and delivered a punch that hit his throat knuckles first, then followed through with a second hit with the rest of his fist in the space of a second, crushing the larynx.

The Taldan was beginning to run from the masked man, his intention quite clear. He could not be allowed to raise the alarm. He kicked up the sword of the fallen Ancrym, caught it, and in one fluid motion hurled the weapon with all of his might, catching the Taldan hilt first in the back of the head. Unbalanced, the soldier fell face first into the dirt. The masked man ran forward as he was beginning to rise and threw himself on the man's back, and caused him to pitch forward once again. The masked man grabbed the Taldoran's hair, tugging the head back, then took hold of the man's chin and wrenched it to the left. His neck snapped like dry wood.

"Now to find Lord Draxas."

"Don't bother, demon. If you want to see him so badly, we'll be more than happy to take you him."

The masked man looked about him and saw several Varisians, all armed with crossbows pointed at him. He rose slowly from his kill, hands raised. He shrugged nonchalantly. He had played the odds and lost. But it seemed that he was still going to get his wish. Perhaps things would balance out so that he would break even.

"Lead on," he said.

* * *

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

The head of Lavitz's spear drove into the ground, narrowly missing the barely visible head of the totenmaske. The holy knight grunted, both from the effort of the attack and from the frustration he was feeling. He wanted to help his friend and comrade, but the totenmaske was making that task a difficult one. By remaining partially in the ground it was hard enough to hit. Add the fact that the creature had Naqam by the ankles and that added an unwanted degree of difficulty to the situation. One false move from either Xein or himself and they could very well end up killing their companion.

He spared a glance over at Xein, who also seemed at a loss as to what he could do. But then a curious gleam lit the Chelaxian's eyes as he dismissed his weapons and motioned for Lavitz to move aside. Confused, but willing to give Xein a chance, the Andoren did as he was asked, though he kept his spear at the ready in the event that whatever Xein was planning did not succeed.

When Lavitz had backed away, Xein began to make motions in the air before him, gestures that seem to gather in to himself powerful arcane energy. He was performing some kind of _invocation_, that much was obvious but which one? As far as the holy knight knew, with the exception of the ones he used to enhance his blades, the majority of his invocations would be of no benefit to them now.

Suddenly, the night air shattered with a shriek of sorrow as a flash of flame briefly limned Xein's form. His mouth began to expand, growing to accomodate dripping fangs that had not been there before. His body began to shudder and spasm, contorting into all manner of unnatural positions, even as his flesh began to bubble and boil until finally there was a wet ripping sound as a pair of red leathery wings and a long whiplike tail broke free from his back, unfurling almost if in triumph.

* * *

Marandici Caravan: 6 Desnus, 4742

"Lord Draxas, you have visitors."

"Show them in, Syeira."

The leader of the Knights of the Sihedron stood from his seat to meet his guests. He did not have long to wait.

A short masked man was shoved roughly into his tent, followed by two Marandici armed with crossbows.

"What is this?"

"This assassin was caught within the camp, after killing four of your men," said one of the Varisians. " We brought him to you as per Madame Zellara's request. Deal with him as you will."

"My thanks. Rest assured this matter will be dealt with quickly."

The spokesman nodded and turned to leave. "I will inform Madam Zellara."

When the two men had gone, Draxas walked over to the masked man, eyeing him warily. "Who are you? I can only assume that you're here to kill me."

The masked man merely shrugged, a move that serverd to anger Draxas.

"If you will not speak to me, then perhaps you will talk to someone else. Syeira!"

The guard's head poked in through the tent's flap. "Yes, lord?"

"Send for Reise."

At the mention of that name, the masked man's attitude changed. "Reise. The Spherewalker? She serves you?"

The man's abrupt change in demeanor at the mention of the priestess caught Draxas by surprise. "A Desnan serves only the goddess and the world," said the lord of Fort Rannick. "We merely work together toward the same end. How is it that you know of her?"

"He knows me because he trained me."

Both Draxas and the masked man turned to face the speaker that stood framed within the opening of the flap. Reise entered fully into the tent, her face calm as she approached to within an arm's length of the masked man and bowed slightly at the waist, hands held together in prayer fashion directly over her heart. "Draxas, I present to you my teacher: Master Guan ir'Shen."

* * *

Sirathu: 6 Desnus, 4742

Lavitz watched in horror, gripping his spear tightly as the pit fiend within Xein seemed to be exercising its influence upon the young man. The holy knight readied himself to do what he must in the event that Xein lost this battle of wills. He knew that the abilities Xein possessed varied in power by degrees, much like a wizards' spells or Naqam's expressions. The _least _and _lesser_ invocations did little to test his skills but the more powerful ones, the _greater_ and _dark_ invocations, placed a severe strain upon both his body and mind, straining his control to its very limits.

The Xein/pit fiend shot a baleful look at the holy knight, who now stood enveloped within a golden glow. "Knight of the Golden Fire," it bellowed, wrapping its wings about itself as though it were some kind of living cloak. "Spawn of Shadow. I know who you are. There are many of my kind that are eager to see you dead and your soul harvested. But that right is reserved solely for me, Lavitz Kaisur."

"Yes, I imagine that you would if you could, Kuninin. But you can do nothing to me."

Xein/Kuninin smiled. "True enough. But you know as well as I that the runes that bind me to this human will not do so forever. And on the day that I gain my freedom..."

"On that day," Lavitz said, cutting off the fiend, "I will end your existence in this world and send you back to the Hells, my name forever a curse upon your lips. But that day can be a far off one for you. Release your hold on this scion of House Thrune and let him do what he set out to do." The fire surrounding the holy knight began to intensify, its strength increasing with each word that was spoken. "Or that day will be upon you much sooner than you would like."

"You would sacrifice his life to end mine?" Xein/Kuninin asked, a sneer curling its lips.

"I would do nothing of the sort. But do not think that you can simply leverage him against me for your own ends either. The only deal to be had here for you this night, Kuninin, is another reprieve from demotion due to your destruction by my hand."

Xein/Kuninin issued a low growl. Devils were afraid of few things, but all feared the shame of demotion. Failure was not an option in the Hells, that most ruthless and demanding of meritocracies. Fiends of his rank seldom went out to enforce pacts, but when they did success was usually guaranteed. As a pit fiend, Kuninin knew he had much to lose should he be made to return without this vessel's soul. A demotion for him had consequences that would unravel his own plans and ambitions.

He weighed his options and knew that the holy knight, this Knight of the Golden Fire, would not hesitate in destroying him and thus send Kuninin back to the Hells, something he was not ready to do. There would be no advantage in confronting him here. "You bargain well, Lavitz Kaisur. It pleases me to do as you ask." Kuninin flashed a most diabolical smile. "Perhaps your future lies in being an arbiter. I would be most willing to have you. Think about it. You know where you can reach me if you should decide to take up my most generous and gracious offer."

And with an evil laugh, the pit fiend withdrew back into Xein, its wings and tail falling away like so much cast-off skin to dissolve into nothing on the ground.

Lavitz's encounter with Kuninin seemed to play out over the course of minutes, but in reality it only lasted a fraction of that time. When he looked back at Xein, the Chelaxian was finishing up his invocation. His form discorporated, becoming a swarm of shadowy bats that filled the immediate area and beyond. The holy knight watched in awe as the flitting creatures swirled around the head and shoulders of the totenmaske, attacking it relentlessly until it released its grip upon Naqam, who collapsed to his hands and knees.

The totenmaske swatted and swiped at the dark cloud of bats one last time before descending into the ground. When it was gone, the swarm gathered itself together and reformed back into Xein. Lavitz made his way over to Naqam, his armor retreating from his form as he went. Once at his friend's side, the holy knight produced three metal vials of potion. In addition to eliminating the effects of exhaustion when drank, the contents could restore small amounts of life energy to the imbiber. He immediately opened one and poured its contents into Naqam's mouth.

"My thanks to you, friend," he said gratefully, the lines of exhaustion on his face fading. "I should have been more aware of my surroundings than that."

"No thanks are necessary, Naqam. And you could not have anticipated where that thing was, so there is no need to chastise yourself about what happened tonight."

"But **you** knew, sohei."

"True enough, but not until it was too late. If there is any blame to had, then let it be shared by us both."

At that the Osirian chuckled. "I will meditate upon your words. You should have been a Korvosan arbiter, sohei."

Lavitz's face hardened. "That is the second time this night the word 'arbiter' has been used in regard to myself. It troubles me greatly."

A curious look crossed Naqam's face, but before the Andoren could speak further, Xein was standing over them. "Is he well?"

"Well enough that we may continue about our quest, Brother Xein." Refusing any assistance, the warrior-mystic rose to his feet. He glanced back at the holy knight, who also rose from where he knelt. Without speaking, his message was conveyed in that simple look: their talk was not yet done.

"No, we are done here." Lavitz looked over both men as he spoke. "We were sent to ascertain the condition of this place. Let us return to Lord Draxas and inform him of what we have seen."

The two men nodded and began to walk away. Lavitz placed a hand upon Xein's shoulder, stopping him. When he turned to face the holy knight, he saw a concerned look upon his face. "Yes, Sir Kaisur?"

"I just wanted to say that you did well tonight. A most clever use of your capabilities."

The compliment, though appreciated, was most unexpected. The Chelaxian was at a loss for words. Why then that look of worry upon his face? He accepted the congratulations with the hope that it would alleviate his own concerns.

But it did not.


	5. Chapter 5

Korvosa: 6 Desnus, 4742

From where it sat at the end of Conqueror's Bay, where the river Jeggare met the sea, Korvosa had long stood as the first bastion of civilization on the wild frontier of Varisia. From its earliest days as a Chelaxian outpost, the city had grown to fill the spit of land formed by two sharp turns in the river, covering the holm known as Endrin's Isle that split the Jeggare at its mouth and spread to a few outlying areas on the far shore. As the oldest human settlement in Varisia (a claim disputed by the folk of Kaer Maga), Korvosa had been lauded as the founding seat of civilization in an otherwise lawless region of Avistan, that thanks to it and the spread of its people, Varisia had become a relatively safe place to live.

But in a region under the grip of the Crimson Flame and its fanatical followers, the feeling of what it meant to be safe had taken on an entirely new meaning.

They were six in number and wore hooded robes that were black in hue, like the color of the endless void, adorned with spirals, demonic faces, many-pointed arrows, and broken squares - all signs of chaos. They also bore another symbol, one that was larger and more prominent than the others; a symbol that showed their allegiance to one master above all others.

A tongue of red flame. The sign of Massif.

They had gathered upon the stage of the Old Korvosan theater called Exemplary Excrables. Formerly a temple of Aroden, it had found life as the home of all things foul, gore-slicked, and unnaturally pornographic. Numerous acts rotated through the theater, with any particular performer putting on a show four or five nights a week. The theater's acts included gore-filled plays with faux tortures, false murders, fake rapes, and other fabrications meant to horrify and sicken the audience. But by far the most popular act, though, was the so-called "death play," in which a masked performer gruesomely "murdered" a volunteer from the audience for all the rest to enjoy.

Which made it the perfect place in the entire city for the cultists of Crimson Flame, the children of Massif, to meet with one another.

"Welcome, brothers and sisters of the Flame," one said, with a voice that was dry and faintly metallic. The speaker was tall, towering over his fellows.

"Greetings," the others answered in turn.

"We are here to discuss a threat to our master's goal of Change," the tall speaker continued.

"Lord Draxas Arkona," whispered one of the other cultists.

"The Knights of the Sihedron and their leader have proven to be a thorn in our master's side. But they are not the threat that I would discuss with you all."

This brought forth a round of excited murmurs and rampant speculation from the gathered.

"The threat I speak of is not a person, but rather a thing in human form."

At that, the one who had whispered the name of Draxas spoke yet again. "Malik. You speak of Malik, the so-called 'Sword of Vengeance.' "

The tall one nodded his hooded head. "He is a danger to us all..."

"He is a danger because we have that which he wants. Give it to him and we shall be rid of him."

"We can not do that."

"Can not...or will not?"

The two speakers glared at one another from beneath their hoods, causing the remaining assembled cultists to feel uncomfortable in their presence.

"Can not. We are no longer in possession of it."

This admission caused the remaining cultists to gasp in both fear and alarm. All save one.

* * *

Marandici Caravan: 6 Desnus, 4742

Draxas stared at both Reise and the masked man she called Master Guan. "Well, now that the formal introductions have been made, will someone please tell me what is going on?"

The priestess of Desna hesitantly tore her gaze from Guan and fixed it on her friend. "I don't know, Draxas, any more than you. I came because I heard that someone had entered the camp and killed four guards. I figured that the cultists had sent someone to assassinate you and came as quickly as I could."

The masked man knelt down on the floor of the tent, his legs folded beneath his thighs with his buttocks resting on his heels. He then placed tops of his feet so that they were flat on the floor, and finally lowered all the way down, the palms of his hands resting lightly on the top of his thighs and his back straight. Draxas had seen this posture before, seen it performed by Reise countless times when she was about to meditate. When asked, she called it _seiza_, a traditional and formal way of sitting that was done in Tian Xia. He also noted that, unlike Reise, who usually did it with her knees together, he sat with them slightly apart. What this meant Draxas did not know, but he knew that it was indeed significant.

"I cannot waste any more time than I already have," began Guan. "I am here, not to assassinate, but to talk. What happened with your men was... unfortunate, but I could not afford the luxury of being open with my movements. Surely someone in your position can understand that, Lord Draxas."

The Lord of Fort Rannick said nothing, but the masked man could tell that he did indeed understand. He looked from Draxas to Reise, who was also in seiza across from him, and continued. "I am here because of you, Spherewalker. More to the point, I am here because of your sister Gwyneth. We've finally found her."

* * *

Xin-Shalast: 6 Erastus, 4708

Draxas rose, picking himself up from where he had dove onto the stone floor to avoid being hit by one of the four fiery spheres of molten gold that had rained down from smoky sky above. He looked around at his companions, quickly checking to see if they were alright as well before focusing his attention on the threat above them.

Hovering some forty feet in the air was a man dressed in immaculately appointed robes of green with gold trimming. In his right hand he held a glaive, the head of which burned furiously. He leveled the weapon at them and proclaimed loudly, "You came to slay me, to keep me from reclaiming my empire. Well, let it not be said that Karzoug the Claimer is not magnanimous. You shall be richly rewarded for your audacity."

And with that said, the man called Karzoug raised his weapon over head and produced a gold-encrusted rod with his left. He then released the glaive, which promptly darted down to position itself before its owner. Simultaneously, Karzoug began to trace a fine golden line of arcane energy before him with the rod, forming a circle of shimmering energy and dancing runes that hung suspended in the air. Once done, he shouted a single word: "Stop!"

For a brief moment, the lazily drifting vapors within the Eye of Avarice seemed to ripple then freeze in place for a fraction of a heartbeat before resuming their movement once more. Draxas seemed confused as he looked to his companions, who were equally at a loss for words. Whatever spell the wizard had cast, it had appeared to fail. Not wanting to question their apparent good luck, the group moved to gather themselves together to make their next move.

And lost sight of each other due to a bank of billowing yellowish green mist and noxious vapors that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Draxas called out, seeking to use his voice as a guide for his companions even as he stayed fixed to his current location. He imagined them lost, stumbling about the poisonous cloud trying to find him, choking and gagging from the fumes. The image roused his anger, which served to focus his mind on the task at hand.

The first to find him was Alster, a dark-haired pale skinned man with deep purple eyes whose fists were encased within bladed gauntlets of black adamant. Worn by anyone else, the gauntlets were merely dangerous. Worn as they were by a Manarkoral-ranked Steel Fury, trained to make them such an extension of himself that he could perform even the most delicate feats of manual dexterity as though they weren't there, the gauntlets were deadly.

Next to him was the green-eyed, red haired Roku, an elan that claimed to be a survivor of fallen Bakrakhan, once the domain of the Thassilonian Runelord Alaznist, which, if true, would have made her over 10,000 years old. Lending credence to her claim, she was skilled and learned in the ways of a lost martial traditon: the way of the swordsage. In addition to this mystical warrior knowledge, Roku's inherent psionic heritage made her a gifted pyrokineticist, a talent that went hand in hand with her chosen swordsage technique, one that she called the _Burning Wind_. All of this, in combination with her advanced age, also made Roku an exceptionally unstable pyromaniac. She stood quietly by, her tiny hands wielding a pair of weapons that were little more than solid circles of fire-blackened crystal which had one small area wrapped in leather as a handle, with a bladed guard inside the wheel and above the handle to both protect and aid in gripping. The rest of the wheel was keenly sharpened and featured evenly spaced flame-like protrusions for piercing and tearing flesh.

"Where are the others?" Though Draxas could just make out Alster and Roku standing before him, he continued to seek out the rest of his companions. "Ein. Gwyneth. Malik. Reven. Where are they?"

Alster merely shrugged, an annoyed look flashing briefly across his face as he stared intently at the gagging Draxas. The two had never really gotten along with one another, and for a moment it seemed that the Steel Fury was about to lay into Draxas verbally, as was his way. "Cut off from us even as we are cut off from them." Seeing the confused look on his companion's face, Alster strode a short distance past Draxas and ran his open hand before him. Sparks trailed out from the contact with some unseen barrier.

"And that's not all," said Roku as pointed with her left hand, drawing Draxas' gaze to a vertical, opaque plane of force that shimmered with multicolored flashes of light.

"A prismatic wall." Draxas recognized the barrier immediately for what it was. "Placed to keep us all from advancing forward, with both a killing mist and a wall of force used to divide us, keep us apart, so that we'll be easier to take down. But how could he have done all of this in such a short amount of time?"

"No time to figure it out now." Alster's words drew Draxas' attention back to him. "What we need to do is link back up with the others. Since you seem to know about this prismatic wall thing, can you get us past it?"

Roku's liquid green eyes seemed to brighten as she watched Alster and Draxas try to formulate a plan of escape. "Seven colors are seven locks with keys that must be found. Order and patience are what we need to bring the rainbow down."

The two looked back at the elan, who seemed just as confused and surprised as they were by the words she had just uttered. Then all at once, Draxas nodded his head, gagging and coughing violently in the process. "She's right. The key to getting past the prismatic wall is a specific sequence of spells. Otherwise, any attempt to get past it physically will result in much harm being visited to the one so foolish to try and do so."

Alster looked first at Draxas, then the wall, then once again back at Draxas. "Is that all? Well then, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

And before anyone else could say another word, Alster charged the prismatic barrier and plunged into the shimmering light. Draxas watched the wall take on a red color even as flames limned the Steel Fury's form. Then the color changed to an orange hue and Alster's flame were put out by a caustic liquid that now coated his body and ate away at his flesh. Yet, in spite of the pain he obviously was experiencing, Alster would not be stopped as he struggled to press on.

The barrier flashed from orange to yellow, from yellow to green, and then from green to blue. Electricity crackled over him even as a noxious vapor formed around him and there seemed no sign of Alster slowing down in the slightest. Draxas dared to hope that the stubborn Manarkoral would be able to push on through to the other side.

Then suddenly, the Steel Fury ceased all motion. Roku and Draxas looked at one another, confused expressions worn on their faces. They called to him, but there was no response. From overhead, the wizard Karzoug pointed with his index finger at Alster and chanted a quick arcane phrase that Draxas recognized immediately.

"No!" The word hung in the air as Draxas raised both of his hands as though he were aiming at the wizard. The temperature dropped around him as a cone of black flames leapt from his outstretched hands, guided as they were toward his target. But as the eldritch blast struck the prismatic wall, there was a brief flash and the color red disappeared from the shimmering barrier.

A thin emerald beam sprang from Karzoug's extended digit and struck Alster. With horrified helplessness, both Draxas and Roku watched as their companion was reduced to nothing more than a fine dust. Of Alster, the only thing that remained were his gauntlets that clattered noisily to the stone floor of the chamber.


	6. Chapter 6

Marandici Caravan: 6 Desnus, 4742

Crouched behind a tree, Naqam looked on as his companions made their way past his position. Having watched both Lavitz and Xein on the team's journey to rendezvous with the caravan of the nomadic wagon folk that served as the mobile base of operations for the Knights of the Sihedron, the Osiriani warrior-mystic could not recall this degree of tenseness between the two. But he understood all too well the seriousness of what had transpired in Sirathu. Kuninin had nearly escaped from the arcane bindings that held him prisoner within Xein. This had not been the first time such a thing had occurred, but it seemed to be happening with increasing frequency.

His hand tightly clutching the crystal hilt he held, Naqam got up and sprinted ahead, keeping his movements parallel to his companions. As he kept pace with them, Naqam's thoughts went to a heated conversation he had held with the head of his order before leaving them. His master had tried to warn him that as beings capable of channeling the mystic energy of the universe, they were vulnerable to those very cosmic forces. The slightest mistep could cause a _J'sevath_ to become a menace to those around them. At first, he had thought this sentiment to be nothing more than an excuse that the order merely hid behind to keep themselves apart from the rest of the world.

But now, after his experiences with Kuninin and Xein, Naqam was beginning to understand exactly what he had been told.

"Stand fast and be recognized!"

The call came from a dark haired man that stepped out from behind a tree. He was dressed as one of the Marandici, but Naqam knew him as Autrey, one of Lord Draxas' men.

Lavitz and Xein stood still, as did Naqam. As he watched Autrey approach his friends, the Osirian could not place what it was exactly but something struck him as being wrong.

Autrey the guard approached both the holy knight and the Chelish dreadblade cautiously, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Sir Kaisur? Is that you?"

The knight nodded, then removed his helm. "It is, Autrey. Is everything alright? I thought Bastian would be the one to meet us."

Autrey's pained expression said what his words could not. Xein took a tentative step forward. "What happened?"

The guard cast a glare Xein's way that made the Chelish man back up. "An assassin got 'im. And not just Bastian. Ancrym and Tanrov too. Even that uppity Taldan. All of 'em. To just one man."

"Calm yourself, Autrey." Lavitz approached the upset guard and placed a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. "We all share the pain of this loss. But I cannot believe that nothing has been done about this. Does not Lord Draxas have the matter well in hand?"

"He and the Spherewalker have been interrogating the bastard since his capture."

"Just the two of them? No one else is sitting in on this?" Xein's words carried the slightest hint of alarm.

"At ease, Xein. Lord Draxas is more than capable of dealing with an assassin, no matter how powerful he may be. And if the Lady Reise is there as well, then your worries are even more unwarranted. Naqam can attest to the Spherewalker's skill in battle."

"Aye, that I can." The warrior-mystic had approached the small gathering without making a sound. "Though your heart is in the right place, Xein, I don't think we should worry overly about the safety of Lord Draxas or the Spherewalker."

Xein paused as though to speak but thought better of it and slowly, if but reluctantly, nodded his agreement.

Lavitz turned to regard Naqam, his eyes conveying his appreciation. He then looked back Autrey. "Lead on, good sir. We have much to tell our lord and little time in which to do it. For if I know him, Lord Draxas has more work for us to do."

"Gwyneth?" Reise was at a loss for words. "How can that be? Draxas thought her dead. _**I**_ thought she was dead. She survived the battle with the Claimer?"

"It would seem so, Spherewalker. If you are ready, I can take you too her. She is eager to be reunited with her family once again."

"Draxas, is this not the most wonderful..." The rest of her words were left unspoken as she turned to look upon her friend.

Draxas, lost in his remembrance of that fateful day, that fateful encounter with Karzoug, did not notice Reise's concerned gaze.

But Guan did.

"How often does this sort of thing occur with him?" His words lacked any sense of sympathy, spoken as they were with such cool detachment. "If his mind is clouded in any way that could jeopardize this land's freedom..."

Reise, the Spherewalker, felt outrage that her former master would talk so about Draxas. But her face betrayed no sign of the feelings she was experiencing, only calm. "His mind is as sharp now as it has ever been since I've known him. You cannot possibly know the burden that he places upon himself, the guilt that he feels each and every day that passes. He has lost much to be here and stands to lose more. Who are you to question him?"

Guan sat silently for a long moment, his former student feeling uncomfortable under the cold hard stare of those eerie eyes. When he spoke again, those eyes did not change in the slightest.

"Who am _**I**_ to question him? **I** am one that strives to make this sick world that we live in a better one. And if I am to have him as an ally, I would know that the one **I** stand with is not going to pose a danger to us all because his mind could wander at a critical moment."

Rising from seiza, Reise made her way to the flap of the tent, stopping only to speak once again to Master Guan. "He has me, and I will not let that happen."

"Your love for him is strong, child. Does he know how you feel?" When she did not answer, Guan continued. "I ask only because I am concerned for you, my student."

"We'll be fine. We'll all be fine." And with that, Reise made her way past Syeira.

Master Guan watched her as she left the command tent, then turned back to Draxas. "I hope so, child. The future of us all depends on it."

* * *

Xin-Shalast: 6 Erastus, 4708

Roku and Draxas looked first to where Alster's guantlets lay, then to Karzoug before finally turning to gaze upon one another. The two knew that Alster's loss, his sacrifice could not be in vain. And though no words were exchanged between them, none were needed. Such were their hearts at that moment they acted as one. The elan closed her eyes and immediately the temperature around her rose to such a degree that the air around her began to shimmer and dance. When her eyes opened again, they had gone from their usual bright liquid green to a hellish orange hue. Roku raised her hands and a roaring line of flame erupted before her, slamming into the floor where the prismatic barrier stood. At the same time, Draxas gestured, creating another blast of ebon fire, hitting the ground with considerable force. The combination of her flame and his eldritch blast proved to be more than the surface could withstand and soon a shallow trench was dug underneath the barrier.

The two spared but a moment to glance at one another and once more an unspoken understanding was reached. Roku ran toward the trench and as she drew close, dropped down to slide beneath the prismatic wall. When Draxas emerged, he found the elan still standing there, staring with awe-filled eyes. Following the direction of her gaze, he soon saw why...

* * *

Korvosa: 6 Desnus, 4742

The gathered cultists, the Children of Massif, were waiting for the tall one to continue. "We shall not refer to Malik by that title."

"But he is indeed the 'Sword of Vengeance.' He is what we made him to be." The tone was silky smooth, bordering on seductive. The second speaker continued. "To call him anything else would be to deny 'His' will. Is that what you would have us do?"

From beneath his hood, the tallest cultist leveled a withering gaze at the one that had spoken. "Have a care and remember to whom it is you speak. If you cannot do so, then I will be most willing to give you the proper instruction."

The second speaker stood defiant, but the gesture proved to be an empty one as the remaining four moved to stand by the tall one's side.

"I'll not suffer your feeble attempts to disparage me and cause dissent here. Chaos will be sown, but only as 'He' bids. How say you?"

"So say we all," intoned the remaining cultists.

"So say we all," repeated the second speaker, though there was obvious reluctance to do so.


	7. Chapter 7

Marandici Caravan: 6 Desnus, 4742

Autrey watched as Lavitz and his men entered the camp, a proud smile upon his face. But as eyes lingered on their retreating forms, the nature of that expression changed. What had once been pride twisted to become an angry scowl that soon gave way to a malicious sneer. "The pride of Lord Draxas, indeed!" His contempt-filled growl was kept low so that no one other than Autrey heard his own words.

The soldier stood by only a moment before walking a short distance away from the camp site where he dropped to a knee and with one hand drew a symbol in the dirt. A tongue of flame. The sign of the enemy.

The sign of Massif.

Autrey began a chant that was so intense that it caused him to tremble. And as this transpired, the symbol simmered and glowed like the flame it represented. But absent from the display was any sense of warmth. Only a profound coldness, and with it a malignancy that seemed to take on a life of its own.

"I-I can't do this anymore. Find someone else to be your vessel. I do not wish to bear the burden of you any longer."

_Not yet, meatsack._ Autrey felt himself diminish at the sound of the whispering voice that spoke to him from within. _Not just yet. If even the smallest things I've heard about Kaisur and his crew are close enough to the truth, then they cannot be allowed to know who I am. So for now, meatsack, I cannot shed myself of this wretched form. No, for the time being I am here and I am here to stay._

The soldier began to sob uncontrollably. "No, please. I beg of you. Let me go." But the creature hiding within Autrey was not about to do anything of the sort. For as much as it pained him to admit, he was not even close to being able to handle either Lavitz or the mystic if a confrontation were to occur. The knight was too pure of heart to be a suitable vessel while the mystic was well versed in the Unseen Art of the mind to be of any use to him. And while the Chelish man was neither of those things, the runes that adorned his body made it clear that he was off-limits as well.

"Autrey?"

A female voice interrupted the creature's thoughts. His desire to know the speaker's identity caused the soldier to turn.

"Reise!"

The Spherewalker looked down at Autrey, concern apparent in her eyes. "Is everything all..." However, concern was replaced by caution. He quickly followed her gaze. She'd seen it! She had seen the sign! She could not be allowed to leave.

Get her!

Word became deed as Autrey rose up where knelt, lunging forward as he moved, right arm outstretched. The action was too fast for Reise to avoid and she felt Autrey's hand firmly grasp her by the throat before she could either back away or raise an alarm. There was an inhuman strength there and more. Held there as she was, Reise was unable to look away from Autrey's eyes. Eyes that seemed full of regret at what was happening. She forced herself to speak.

"Why?"

She will do. Yes, she will do nicely. Hold her for me.

"I am sorry, Spherewalker. Please forgive me."

And with those words, Autrey's eyes flared with an inner light. A light that sought to consume the Spherewalker's will as it left the soldier to take up residence within her body. Reise fought as hard as she could, bringing to bear everything that could be mustered against this threat that sought to inhabit her body.

A barrage of mental images came at her. And in all of them, Reise saw herself. But not just herself. There was her beloved Draxas. Her half-sister Gwyneth. The rogue Revan. The elven Champion Ein. The swordsage Roku. The Steel Fury Alster. All of her friends present in the thoughts of the creature trying to take control of body and mind. Was it somehow taking her knowledge to use against her?

Is it not yet obvious. These are not your memories. They are mine. Mine because I was there with you. Look closely and see the truth for yourself.

Against her better judgement, the Spherewalker continued to journey further into the mind of the creature, with the hope that in ferreting out its identity she would be able to keep her own. The memories were of younger times and brighter days.

Sandpoint. It had been home to them all. And there was something else. No. Not something. Someone. There was someone else. Hair of reddish-gold. Eyes of the lightest green. And the scent of strawberries.

Shayliss. The daughter of Ven and Solsta Vinder. Engaged to... _No. It can't be?_

Yes, dear Reise. It's me.

But the knowledge of her assailant's identity came with the loss of her own as the creature took full hold of her.

Body, mind, and soul.

Autrey looked frantically about, a confused look evident in his eyes. Soon confusion gave way to the realization that the creature inside of him was no longer there. He was free. And it was all thanks to the Spherewalker. "Luck of the Goddess! Lady Reise, you've freed me! How can I ever hope to repay you?"

Reise gently shushed the soldier, laying her index finger on his lips to prevent him from speaking any further. "Nothing more need be said of this, young Autrey. But I do have a price for your gratitude." And with that, she leaned in close to whisper in his ear. When she was done, Reise looked to him and asked "Think you can handle that for me?"

It was all that Autrey could do to keep himself from soiling his breeches as he nodded in response, fear evident in his eyes.

Reise smiled. "Go forth with the blessings of Desna, my son."

The soldier sped from her presence as fast he could manage without drawing too much attention to himself.

When he was gone, Reise turned her attention to retreating back of the knight. "Time I think to have some fun."

* * *

Lavitz approached the entrance of Lord Draxas' command tent, only to be brought short by Syeira. The knight looked down at the smaller warrior, those defiant eyes making it clear that there would be hells to pay should he attempt to bypass her. "Is everything alright?"

"My lord is not yet ready to receive you, Sir Lavitz." came the guard's terse reply. "I will inform him of your return, however, as he does wish to speak with you concerning your team's scouting mission to Sirathu."

A look of shock nearly stole across the knight's face. This was the most that Lavitz had ever heard Syeira speak at any one time, and she had done so to _dismiss_ him?

He regained his composure quickly enough. With a nod, Lavitz smote his chest in salute to the guard and made his way from the command area, noting the mixed look of relief and gratitude on her face as he left.

Only one person here would have the answer to what was going on and it was to that person he made his way. Apparently more had transpired in his absence than the attack of an assassin and Lavitz was going to find out exactly what that was.

He did not have far to go.

"Reise!"

The Spherewalker stood not more than ten feet from him, her green eyes glittering dangerously in his direction.

"By all that is holy, what goes on here?"

Reise spoke not a word, but answered him nonetheless by dropping her hands so that they were facing outward, her fingers curled as though they were claws. She stood with knees bent, her feet slightly greater than shoulder width apart.

For the second time since he had entered the Varisian caravan's encampment, Lavitz nearly lost his composure. But he had no time to parlay further with Reise for she had closed the distance between them in less time than it took for his heart to beat once. Her clawlike strikes flashed quickly, leaving the knight little room for anything other than to backstep as fast he could to avoid her blows.

* * *

Naqam stood in a clearing not far from the caravan where there was a whirlwind of activity taking place. It had been too long since the mystic had engaged in battle meditation and after what had transpired previously in Sirathu during the encounter with the totenmaske, he could not deny that he needed it.

With his thoughts calm and his body relaxed, the bald Osirian produced the crystal hilt that formed the heart of his force-staff, presented it before him with both hands and bowed his head slightly forward, his eyes still focused on the space in front of him. Naqam then shifted his hands so that his left was low on the crystalline device, his right high. The grip he maintained was firm for now, but as always he knew that during the execution of this style, that would change. Naqam would often alternate between tight and loose grips to better facilitate the flow of his movements as there would be times when he would need to perform a hand change or even a reverse grip to complete the swirling strikes of _E'erop_, the Way of the Tentacled Beast.

From a distance, Xein watched as Naqam ignited the weapon and began to execute the attacks of his form. The young Chelaxian often watched the Lissalan warrior-mystic practice his art, hoping as he always did to glean something of use from what he saw. For the Osirian's force-staff was not unlike Xein's own spirit blades. And so he watched, and as always, Naqam's strikes seemed too fast for his eyes to follow completely.

The strikes were deceptive in their grace as they snapped from the whirling weapon, with both stunning celerity and accuracy. And as Naqam moved from one strike to the next, Xein could only stare in awe at the terrifying beauty of what he was witnessing. The ends of the force-staff were used to cover the mystic's wide movements. The maneuvers, thought by many to be "showy," had another purpose. The whirling weapon defended his body even as he made strikes that in any other form would otherwise be considered undefended or even overextended. Defense had already been incorporated into his movements so that even when Naqam was on the offense, he was still protecting himself from attack.

Naqam, in the meantime, had become a blur of constant motion, performing not only the staff strikes of _E'erop_ but throwing kicks and punches into the routine as well. Xein could not fathom why, for as far he could determine, there was no real need to do so.

_No, Xein. _The Chelaxian was startled by the inner voice he now heard, but only for a moment. This voice did not always speak to him, but when it did, Xein was often offered a different view of things that he did not always catch at first. _In this you are wrong. Look closer and see._

And so Xein looked again and as he did, the action before him seemed to slow down. There was...something to what his inner voice was telling him. He could almost see...

"Master Xein."

The young Chelish man spun, weapons forming instantly, to confront the one that had walked up on him without his knowledge.

Autrey's face struggled to remain composed. He reached up with a hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that had formed on his brow. With the other Autrey drew his sword.

"What are you doing?"

"Following order's sir." And with those words, Autrey launched his attack.


End file.
